


Drama Kings

by mordicus_spordicus



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: (more like enemies to frenemies to friends to lovers but you get the idea), Blood Drinking, But act like they're indifferent and haughty, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing around their feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Grab Bag of Regular Scenes and Straight Up Porn, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, No I haven't played the game yet my computer isn't powerful enough :(, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other sexual acts to be tagged appropriately per chapter (these boys FUCK), Trans Male Character, Two idiots who actually kind of like each other, Vampires, Vignette, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordicus_spordicus/pseuds/mordicus_spordicus
Summary: Dionysus the Keen is rarely rattled. After decades of burning hardships and bardic triumphs, the young tiefling thought he could conquer anything with the right amount of wit. The Fates had proved him wrong, and he didn’t even have his beloved cittern accessible to pen his woes. Shortly after being violently ejected from the Nautilus, he happens upon a pale elf with suspiciously sharp teeth, and he figures that the stranger is the least of his troubles; little does he know that a strange and merciless chapter of his life is unfolding right before his very eyes.Vignettes of the curious and tumultuous relationship of the vampire spawn Astarion and his rival and eventual lover, the bard Dionysus.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. Get that knife any closer to me and I’ll ram it up your skinny arse!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content overview: two bastards meet, hilarious violence ensues. Loosely based on canon dialogue.

Dionysus the Keen is rarely rattled. After decades of burning hardships and bardic triumphs, the young tiefling thought he could conquer anything with the right amount of wit. The Fates had proved him wrong, and he didn’t even have his beloved cittern accessible to pen his woes.

The memory of the past hour creeps to the front of his mind unbidden: falling thousands of meters off the ground, wind screaming through his ears, blood trickling from his temple. His newfound companions wince in sympathy from their telepathic link, and he glances back to study them; to his left is the cool, dangerously handsome Shadowheart, a half-elf girl with more mettle with than a thousand armies. To his right, the jovial and laidback Gale of Waterdeep, a human far too comfortable with flagrant magic use for reasons Dionysus is yet to understand.

The three of them are mind flayer ticking time bombs, and the reality hasn’t quite sunk in yet.

They walk along the beach path, silent now for nearly a half hour as they search for any way off the embankment, when they happen upon a new face: an elf, tall and slender, his hair and skin as pale as moonlight.

“You, over there! You’re just in time, I saw one of those little brain buggers in the brush there,” he says emphatically, stiffly halted on the rock’s edge. “Surely you can try killing it? You look plenty practiced.”

“My pleasure, stranger. They’re gnarly beasts,” Dionysus says easily. His tone doesn’t betray his wariness of the elf, and he eyes him cautiously as he unhooks his pithy crossbow.

He surveys the underbrush, eyes sharp for the fleshy nightmare, nose keen to the disgusting smell of long-coagulated blood and mildewed claws; he is surprised to see that only a wild boar crosses his path, spooked by something in the opposite direction. Bemused, Dionysus lets his guard down for a moment — a moment too long. He’s grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground, a dagger held taut to his throat. The elf grins, a tad too sharply for the tiefling’s liking, and squeezes his hostage close.

“Now now, dear, don’t struggle — we don’t want that handsome little neck of yours ripped in twain.”

“Get that knife any closer to me and I’ll ram it up your skinny arse!” Dionysus thrashes, trying to get the leverage to twist out of his grip, but earns a warning cut for his efforts.

“Stay back!” The elf shouts to Dionysus’ companions: Shadowheart has drawn a flail, and Gale has the business end of his staff at the ready. “Step a pace closer and I’ll kill him.”

The four are at a standstill. Shadowheart and Gale don’t lower their weapons, but do give the elf and the captive Dionysus a wide berth. The bard, for his part, ceases to struggle. The elf chuckles in his triumph.

“Now, was that so hard?” He squeezes Dionysus tighter, either as a petty joke or a show of dominance. “Let me make this simple for you; you were on that airship, were you not? Nod yes or no.”

Dionysus carefully nods in agreement. The elf laughs, starting jovial, but quickly morphing into something quietly furious. The dagger inches closer to the tiefling’s neck.

“What in the hells did you do to me?” he growls, his rage boiling towards the surface. Before Dionysus can answer, he convulses under the tadpole’s influence; the elf shouts in pain, seemingly experiencing the same sensation. Dionysus, in his agony, is forced to recall a set of memories that are not his own:

_ A dark city street, a handsome noble putty in your hands. All whisked away into a claustrophobic cell, fire and freefalling. The warmth of sunlight on your pale skin, followed by overwhelming panic. _

“What…?” In his distraction, the elf loosens his grip ever so slightly. Dionysus regains control, twisting the hand holding the dagger and rolling out of his grip. The elf groans in pain, taking a defensive stance a few paces away, business end of the dagger facing outward; but he has the look of a man who wants to make amends.

“Hold it!” he cries, holding his hands aloft. He drops his weapon without prompting, greatly relaxing the three recently formed party members. “What I saw just now… you were on that ship. All three of you, I’m supposing. Far be it from me to bark up the wrong tree, I shall venture to not cause you all more direct harm.”

“A hail and well met to you too, stranger,” Dionysus chuckles sarcastically. “Fear not. So long as there are no repeats of this little stunt, we can let bygones be bygones. On the streets of Baldur’s Gate, there have been many times where I have had to do something similar.”

“You’re a Baldurian as well? Well met,” the elf says playfully, cautiously lowering his hands while keeping a close eye on the cleric. “Though I can’t say I know you. We must not run in the same circles.”

“What may I call you, stranger?” Dionysus asks, venturing a step into the elf’s space. When he doesn’t move to grapple or attack him again, he bends down to pick up the dagger, and returns it with the handle facing toward his once-captor. The elf accepts it with a grin.

“Astarion,” he says, red eyes awash with a strange respect. “Though I don’t intend to darken your doorstep further, mister…?”

“Dionysus the Keen. No need for formalities,” the bard says with an equally cautious grin. “My companions there are Shadowheart and Gale of Waterdeep. I wouldn’t move to pressure you, but if you’re similarly afflicted to us, it may be advisable to stick together…”

“Oh! Well… Now, there’s an idea.” Astarion hems and haws, obviously caught off guard by the offer. Shadowheart stares daggers into Dionysus’ back, and Gale looks cautiously optimistic. “I was fully prepared to go it alone, but… Well, why not. Power in numbers and all that.”

“Excellent. Welcome to our humble travelling party, Astarion. There’ll be plenty of brain fodder to kill so long as you’re with us.”

“I do so look forward to it,” Astarion says with a laugh, clipping his dagger into its holster.


	2. What is it, elf? See something you like?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content overview: nudity (in a bathing context), snarking, mutual masturbation, voyeurism.  
> Also, yes, I did post two chapters in one day. Fuck around and find out.

The party stops and rests for the night in a little notched clearing adjacent to a river. Considering the day’s events and the veritable cauldron-full of blood and brain matter that had been sprayed upon them, Shadowheart had the excellent idea of stopping to bathe and wash their leathers. Gale stays behind, stripped down to his undershirt and drawers, to prepare a quick meal of rations they had procured along the way. That leaves Astarion and Dionysus to follow the cleric’s charge.

When they approach the riverbank, Shadowheart begins to remove her armor, eager to wash away the day’s dirt and debris; Dionysus follows suit with only a moment’s hesitation. Astarion stops, staring blankly at the lazily coursing water, staying perfectly in place holding a bucket they had stolen and Gale’s soiled robes.

“What’s the fuss, Astarion?” Shadowheart asks, halfway through undoing her chemise. He snaps out of his fugue, looking at her sheepishly.

“I, uh. Heh. Believe it or not, I’m a bit self conscious,” he blusters, setting the robes aside to draw water into the bucket. He’s overly careful in his efforts to not touch the river, but fails in his exhaustion; he bites back a hiss on contact. Dionysus glares at him sidelong.

“I find that surprising. We may not know each other well, but you seemed to me quite confident in your outward appearance not three hours ago,” the bard quips, throwing his shirt aside to move onto his trousers. Astarion laughs awkwardly, with a panicked expression hiding just beneath the surface.

“I suppose that in terms of confidence, I tend to fake it until I make it,” Astarion offers, politely averting his eyes to focus on washing clothes when Shadowheart completely disrobes. She takes her bar of soap and a washcloth and steps out into the water until she’s submerged from the waist down, wasting no time in scrubbing away.

“Suit yourself. We’ll be quick to give you your privacy,” Dionysus concedes shedding the last of his clothing. He follows Shadowheart into the water, tail winding behind him like a snake, and Astarion’s lurid eyes follow his path.

He can’t say why he’s focusing on the tiefling over Shadowheart; it’s not like he has any true disposition to modesty, and the half-elf lass is a truly fine young woman. He spares her a passing glance as she moves to wash her hair, but is tempted back into looking at Dionysus before long.

Astarion feels a strange attraction to him as he studies his peculiar features. Dionysus is a rather short and stocky example of his race, complete with a gentle face, strong limbs, and soft stomach set into vivid magenta skin. His eyes rake over the well toned muscles of the tiefling’s back, a long-healed scar trailing downward to his generous ass and prehensile tail.

As lurid and entertaining as his unfolding daydreams are, the elf doubles down on the work to be done and the secrets to be kept just as he suspects Dionysus has caught onto him. He stares down hard at Gale’s cloak to brute force the remaining stains out, ignoring the traitorous burgeoning tent in his pants. Just as he moves to take off his jacket, his attention is called upward by a splash in his direction.

Dionysus is staring at him with a lopsided grin, modesty completely ignored. Astarion manages to keep his face neutral, but is glad that the bucket obscures his groin as he takes in the sudden stimulus. He has a delicious-looking neck and collar, trailing sparse hair down to a generously toned chest, each breast complete with its own surgical scar lining the bottom. The elf curses his own stupidity, but can’t help glancing at his companion’s crotch: a proud but small phallus, poking out of a rounded mound of dark hair, looking oh so tempting.

“What is it, elf? See something you like?” The bard’s grin has morphed into what could only be called knowing and cutting, his hands triumphantly rested upon his hips.

“Tch! I would rather be blind, you smarmy son of a bitch,” Astarion snarks, eyes narrowing in mock disgust. In reality, if he were still able, he would be positively flush head to toe in desire. Dionysus throws his head back in a rapturous laugh, and Astarion desperately tears his eyes away. Shadowheart looks on and shakes her head with an exasperated frown, above the proceedings.

Mercifully, the two finish their cleaning without further incident, and Astarion is similarly blessed with the completion of his jacket and trousers as they move back to shore. Unfortunately, that means he’s stripped down to his shirt and drawers; he awkwardly hunches to hide his erection and the scars on his neck as the others redress in their underthings and move to clean up their leathers and armor.

The three work in silence until the remaining blood trickles out of sight in the stream. Shadowheart and Dionysus gather up their damp outer layers and head back towards the camp, but the tiefling lingers a moment, compelling Astarion to look at him.

“Enjoy your alone time,” he says with a sly wink. Astarion groans at him, caught between grin and grimace.

“Yes, I’ll finally have some blasted peace and quiet,” Astarion yells at Dionysus’ retreating figure. The bard laughs as he disappears.

With a sigh, he sets aside the clean clothes and pours the refuse into the river, hissing openly as the running water burns his hand again when he draws some fresh. Disrobing completely, he makes quick work of his washing, carefully but briskly descumming his skin and hair. 

He avoids his groin at first, but slows as he inevitably has to pay it attention. With a quick glance, he can neither see nor hear anyone in his vicinity; he figures some attention paid to his urges will help take the edge off of an objectively catastrophic day.

With some extra soap lathered in his bare hand, he firmly strokes the length of his cock, letting loose a quiet sigh. For once, the memories of his master and murderously intended trysts are far away; right now, he frustratingly imagines Dionysus’ smug grin accompanying a number of tantalizing positions, with no hidden urge to feed on him or turn him over to Cazador. Astarion bets he’s as warm on the inside as he is on the surface — he bites back a groan, wishing he had the forethought to warm his hands by the fire before he did this. His cold fingers do not cut it for his vivid imagination.

Unbeknownst to him, Dionysus hides in a crop of trees a few dozen paces away, watching with lurid intent. The arousal grew as he saw the elf strip — he appreciated the sharp cut of his cheeks, the lithe muscle, and the odd scars dotted across his pale skin. But the heat began pooling between his legs as he watched Astarion begrudgingly touch himself, urging him to do the same.

He pulls his drawers down to his knees, wanting to keep them relatively clean, and smoothly caresses his groin, the soft pressure relieving a deep ache in his bones. He spends a few moments reacquainting himself with the sensation, then moves further south to dampen his fingers with his own lubricant. Dionysus bites back a groan as he teases his cock, gently stroking in circles as he watches Astarion gradually relax. Quiet but sharp inhales mingle with the din of crickets and running rivers as the two increase their respective paces, never once carrying to the other voyeur's ears.

Surprisingly, neither last long. Not a few minutes later, Astarion jolts to a halt and spills onto the sandy ground, letting go a sigh of effort. Shortly after, Dionysus bites his lip to remain quiet through the throes of his orgasim, his cock coiled tight enough to burst and clear come running down his thigh. He hastily cleans himself up with his clean washcloth, watching Astarion’s face with great interest, before pulling up his drawers and disappearing into the woods.

Now that the fit has passed, Astarion stands to complete his cleaning, kicking sand over his abandoned ejaculate. The wretched creature is damn good masturbatory material, the elf could give him that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea if there will be a regular upload schedule for this stuff, though I have plenty set aside for this little idea. Tell me what you'd like to see these two idiots do and I will highly consider including it, with credit to you for the idea.


	3. If you’re careful, you may.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content overview: blood drinking, light frottage, general horniness. More based on canon dialogue than previous chapter.

The past few days weigh heavy on Dionysus’ mind. He is unable to settle for the night, the memory of the tadpole’s cold squirming in his skull sending ice down his spine. Even a secluded sleeping spot away from the others does little to help. Naturally, it’s just his luck that he should sense a foreign figure’s approach right as he’s about to close his eyes; he tenses, listening to the encroaching figure’s footsteps, before springing around to face his pursuer.

Astarion crouches over him, suspiciously sharp teeth glinting in the scant firelight and prone to strike. He reels back as if struck, features pulling from desperate hunger to shock.

“Shit,” he says inelegantly. Dionysus growls, lunging forward to choke him, but his exhaustion slows his reaction time; the elf dodges with a surprised grunt, but the tiefling’s tail catches his ankle before he can run away.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Astarion panickedly assures, holding out his bare hands as a gesture of peace. “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed — well… blood.”

Dionysus stares at him, his suspicions clicking into place. The refusal to eat with the rest of them, the odd bathing behavior, the razor sharp grin — he can see him for what he truly is. A vampire; a slave to sanguine hunger. The tiefling’s eyes narrow in distrust, studying the monster closely.

“I knew that boar was more than a coincidence,” he says lowly, unsure if he feels relieved or betrayed. Can he be betrayed by someone he knows so little about? “How long has it been since you last drained some poor wanderer then, hm?”

“I haven’t killed anyone! … for their blood, anyway,” Astarion assures, overeager. “I normally feed on animals; anything I can get my hands on, but preferably big enough to get a full meal’s worth.”

“Why choose me as your prey, then?”

“It’s not — ugh,” he stammers, thrown off course. “I’m too weak right now. Too slow. If I had even a few drops of blood, I could think more clearly. Hunt more effectively… I’d have never dared otherwise. Please.”

His last word drops with a desperate sigh. The bard’s features soften; despite his initial rage, he can understand why it would be difficult for anyone, let alone Astarion, to share such information. Dionysus has a heart, despite much debate saying otherwise. He can hear the elf out.

“Why did you not think to mention this previously?” he asks, sitting up more solidly, one knee drawn to the chest. Astarion stutters out an incredulous laugh.

“Oh, I’m sure that would have gone down like a sinking ship with our present company. ‘Hello, my name’s Astarion, and I have to exsanguinate the living to keep myself from starving’?” He laughs again, nervously this time. “No, at best, you would refuse. More likely, you would ram a stake through my ribs.

“No. I needed you to trust me. And you  _ can  _ trust me,” Astarion assures, quietly reverent in a strange way. Dionysus can’t decide if he’s being observed as a figure worthy of respect, an object of carnal desires, or a delicious steak on a plate. Perhaps all three? His tail slowly loosens its grip of the elf’s ankle, the anger flowing out of him.

“I certainly want to,” Dionysus admits quietly. Astarion smiles, soft and sweet, unlike the snarky grins the bard had grown used to.

“Thank you,” he says warmly, slowly leaning toward Dionysus. “I wouldn’t dare take advantage of your kindness, but do you think you could trust me a little further?”

He cocks one eyebrow — Dionysus can sense where this is headed. Would the vampire dare? Would Dionysus let him?

“I would only need a taste. I swear.”

Dionysus studies his face in the dim light, searching for an ulterior motive. Astarion’s crimson eyes are quietly pleading, desperate as they are respectful. He’s breathing somewhat heavily: be it from the shock of being discovered or the curse of hunger, Dionysus is uncertain. The bard lays down his legs, a clear decision set in his mind.

“If you’re careful, you may.” Astarion’s eyes widen in surprise, leaving him fumbling for his words. Dionysus half-lunges toward him in warning. “But not a thimbleful more than you need, you hear?”

“Really? I — Of course. Not a drop more.”

Dionysus lays down on his left side, pulling his shirt collar down, with Astarion easing himself to the ground with him. He huddles closer than expected, their bodies mere inches from each other.

“What are you doing?” Dionysus hisses, half turning back to look at him. Astarion’s hand rests firmly on tiefling’s waist, cool to the touch.

“Trying to be less suspicious in case the others see. Far less strange to think we’re getting familiar,” he murmurs back. He draws closer, pressing a chaste kiss to the bard’s neck; the tension rises in Dionysus’ muscles. “Relax, darling. I’m nothing if not precise.”

His assurances don’t help, but Dionysus wills himself to relax against Astarion’s sturdy chest. The careful hand on his waist smooths down to his stomach, gently and intimately pressing their bodies together. Just as Dionysus feels he could fall asleep, the vampire strikes.

Astarion’s fangs enter right at his pulse point, sharp and cold as ice. After a moment, the pain ebbs to the dull throb of Dionysus’ heart pounding in his ears, its beat growing ever quicker. He squirms (in pain? in pleasure?), unintentionally grinding against his vampiric companion, soliciting a deep moan between short desperate breaths. Astarion’s thigh pokes through to nestle betwixt the bard’s, applying even pressure to the surprising jolt of arousal pooling in his belly.

Dionysus leans into Astarion, offering more of his neck and ensuring that their bodies were intimately aligned. His heartbeat is still reedy and quick, increasing the flow of blood between them: he swears he can feel it coursing through both of their bodies. He’s beginning to feel numb; Astarion’s hand squeezes his middle, climbing up towards his chest.

“‘Starion. Enough.” Carefully, Dionysus taps the hand clutching him twice, ordering his immediate release. Astarion backs off with a gasp, moaning in appreciation of a good meal; Dionysus rolls over clumsily to watch him.

“ _ Ha _ . That was —  _ exquisite, _ ” he pants, taking a moment to swallow and savor his bounty. A few escapee droplets trail from his lips to his chin: he ungracefully wipes them away and licks them up, unwilling to spare a morsel. “But where are my manners? Let me clean up your neck, dear.”

Before Dionysus can protest, he leans back into the puncture wound. The bard stiffens in anticipation, but another bite does not come; instead, the vampire laves his smooth tongue along his charge’s neck, delicately lapping up the leftover blood and clotting the punctures closed. This may as well happen, and Dionysus won’t turn up his nose at the attention: he leans into it, enjoying the ministrations. Astarion continues until all that is left are the shiny little puncture marks, then kisses the wound to seal the deal.

“I feel good,” he murmurs in the juncture of the bard’s neck. “Strong — happy. Words cannot describe how grateful I am.” 

“Messy eater, aren’t you?” the bard chuckles, woozily trying to sit up straight but failing miserably. Astarion catches him before he falls, gently laying him back down on his bedroll. “All told, that wasn’t horribly unpleasant.”

“You’re feeling alright?” Astarion asks with an easy grin, eyes flitting between playful, adoring and concerned. Dionysus smiles, feeling more relaxed than he had earlier in the evening. Does a vampire’s bite have some sort of de-stressing agent? He files the question away for later.

“Woozy and anemic, but otherwise peachy,” he admits honestly. The exhaustion is starting to settle in his bones. “I’d hate to be on the receiving end of those in a fight.”

“There are plenty of battles in our future that they could be put to good use in, that’s for sure,” Astarion says, assured and confident. “Now, if you’ll excuse me — you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.”

He lingers a moment, ensuring that Dionysus is comfortably wrapped in his bedroll, and glancing about to assure the others are still asleep. His path towards the forest is halted as soon as it begins, delayed when he turns to regard the bard once more.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it,” he says, eyes hungrily gleaming. With that, he stalks off into the night with a spring in his step, confident as can be. His hunt has begun.

Dionysus watches him as he walks away, and drifts off to sleep shortly after, dreaming of pleasant sexy nonsense instead of brain worms.


End file.
